


Vera Unique’s Creampie Boutique

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Banned Together Bingo, Client Dean Winchester, Donna Noble makes an apperance, F/M, Free Use, Sex Work, Sort Of, Stuck in a wall, Supernatural is Known AU, Wall Sex, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26764543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: “Shouldn’t there be a space in creampie?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.(In which Dean visits a witchy bakery where you can pay for pie with, uh…pie.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 28
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Vera Unique’s Creampie Boutique

**Author's Note:**

> Happy first day of Halloween, y’all!
> 
> This isn’t as explicit as it seems like it is, but the idea for the title popped in my head and made me laugh so I wrote 2k words to justify my own sense of humor.

Seeing as to how they’re not an official branch of the government, nobody really saw fit to give The Men of Letters badges, for which Dean is secretly, immensely grateful.

Nobody likes a man with a badge, but there is an inherent trust that comes with being a well-known not-quite-secret. A wives’ tale. The insignia tattooed in invisible ink on his palm is annoying to get redone every year, but it’s less showy than the signet rings the nerds like Sam wear.

Dean likes walking around like a regular guy when he’s not on a hunt. It keeps people—human or otherwise—from clenching up at the sight of him.

Case in point, when he’s in a gas station on the shitty stretch of I-45 before you hit Dallas, his eyes linger a little too long on the skin mags and someone sidles up to him. It’s only years of re-training his instincts that keep him from tensing at the way the shapeshifter’s eyes flicker silver before he turns to see them properly. The grungy streetwear look seems more genuine than fashionable on them, but the shiny spider bite studs in their lip raise distractingly when they smile.

“Better bang for your buck,” they say and, with a slight-of-hand trick too quick for Dean to follow, offer him a glossy postcard, “and I’m not just saying that because they paid me.”

Dean takes it mostly out of curiosity, but can’t say he’s disappointed when he finds it’s a pin-up.

It’s a very all-American advert, in a campy sort of way. A pretty lady leaned over with her breasts just about spilling out of a too-tight, powder blue housewife dress. One hand is holding a slice of pie, the other hand is up at her mouth, smiling wide with her tongue out to lick whipped cream off her finger. Similarly, written in fluffy white across the bottom—with cherries dotting the i’s—is _Vera Unique’s Creampie Boutique_. The address is less than twenty minutes up the highway in the direction he’s going anyway.

“You some kinda mind reader?” Dean asks the shifter, because this is so on brand for him it’s almost unnerving.

The shifter’s eyes flash intentionally this time. “Nah,” they shrug. “What kinda guy _doesn’t_ like pie?”

Dean dips his head at that, because they have a point. “Shouldn’t there be a space in _creampie_?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

Shifty twirls their finger at the card before backing down the aisle towards the register. Dean flips the card over to find the same lady, this time leaning out a window, her chest _much_ more exposed and her mouth hanging slack with exaggerated pleasure. Through the slight gap in the curtains falling around her waist, the tiniest snippet of bare skin is visible. Oh.

…The place does actually sell pies which is how Dean justifies stopping by.

If he gets there and notices _real_ rune work in some of the decorations hanging in the front window, well, all the more reason to go in. Technically, it’s part of his job description to know which businesses are a front for magical items and whether or not they’re dangerous. He seriously doubts a shop with multiple blessings hanging on the door for people who haven’t even committed to paying yet would hex them with pies. Still, he’d better check it out. Just to be sure, of course.

A bell jingles politely overhead when he nudges the door open, greeted by a welcome rush of cool, sweet air.

The room is bright with natural lighting, but also brightly colored. There is only one other person inside, a trucker type seated in a chair that’s a bit too small for him and drinking out of a tea cup _way_ too small for him. He looks a touch flush, maybe even a bit shaky, but that could just be the blazing heat outside. Dean doesn’t look too closely when they nod towards each other.

“ _Welcome, welcome, I’ll be right with you!_ ” someone calls from where they’re riffling through the cabinets below the dessert display full of _delectable_ looking pastries.

“Take your time,” Dean replies, leaning over to look in the dessert counter. There are friendly little blessings on the goddamn cupcake wrappers. Dean is frankly already sold.

Then a smile meets his through the glass before the lady behind display fully stands up to clear the countertop. She’s a soft looking woman—Donna, her nametag supplies helpfully—with a cheery smile that he returns without conscious thought. There may come a day that Dean doesn’t reflexively smile at a pretty girl, but that day is no time soon.

“Well, hey good lookin’!” she greets happily, folding her arms atop the counter and leaning forward so he gets a full look at her chest where it’s peeking out of her waitress uniform. It’s a good look. “Never seen you around here before.”

“Just passing through,” Dean answers, taking a step forward that implies he’d be well into her space if there weren’t a counter between them. He shows off the postcard. “Little birdy told me I couldn’t leave the state without passing through.”

Donna makes a delighted sound. “Aw, those cards were the best money we ever spent. What can I get you? Just made some apple fritters fresh, but hm…” she strokes her chin. “You look like you’re a pie guy?”

Dean holds his hands out. “Guilty as charged,” he admits guilelessly. Her eyes catch on his palm a second longer than usual, but her smile doesn’t change so he doesn’t comment on it. “Which, uh… what kinda pie are we talking here?”

“Any kind you want,” Donna tells him, eyes glinting knowingly. “We even got a two for one special.”

“On pies?” Dean asks.

“Yep!” Donna motions at the counter. “Buy one to take with you and,” her smile takes on the wickedness of a smirk as she nods at the door towards the back of the store that Dean had assumed led to bathrooms, “leave one behind for free.”

When he cuts a glance in that direction, the trucker is _definitely_ blushing now, steadfastly staring down at his phone. Huh.

It’s sorely tempting, but Dean isn’t exactly looking for an heir. “So what’s the deal?” he asks. “Fertility clinics have got to be lower risk.”

Donna has a snorty laugh that wrinkles up her nose in such a darling way that Dean immediately wants to see it again. “You wouldn’t have gotten this address if you had ill intent,” she tells him, but Dean holds the card a little more carefully at that, anyway. “And none of our models are trying to knock themselves up. We use your deposits for divination.”

…Dean has heard of a lot of things in his day, but that’s a new one. “What are you divining with _jizz?_ ”

“Oh, you’d be surprised! You can read tell a lot about where a fella’s from and where he’s headed from his ejaculate,” Donna answers unbothered. “Back when, some folks would judge weather patterns or crop growth based on migrants. Occasionally we get researchers who want more accurate fertility rates across the country, or for a specific couple if they’ve been paid. And, uh…” She smiles, winking down at his tattooed hand, though it shouldn’t even be visible to her. “You handle the real monsters. We have a network to help people escape the humans that want to hurt them. We can sometimes keep an eye on those people through you.”

“Huh!” In the spirit of fairness, none of that sounds malicious. Dean is usually very good at spotting that kind of thing, but also, the amulet around his neck is still and silent. The one he’s never once taken off in the fifteen years since Sam gave it to him that always, _always_ buzzes softly against his skin when he’s in magical danger. The shop seems like a normal, benign place. Normal being relative and all.

…Still, Dean should probably check it out though. You know, just to make extra sure everything is above bar.

“What pie would you recommend?” Dean asks eventually, fishing his wallet out of his pocket.

“Can’t go wrong with cherry, _but…_ ” Donna taps the glass over a dark brown custard. “The sweet tea pie is new and it’s my _favorite_. If you mean back there,” she jerks her thumb towards the far hall, “they are all _very_ good.”

“Yeah?” Dean replies, trying harder than he’s had to since he was a teenager to not start thinking with his dick. “Tell you what, I’ll take a slice of sweet tea, but gimme a whole cherry for the road, yeah?”

Donna takes his card. “Sure thing! I’ll have them ready for you when you come out,” she replies as she rings him up. “You’ll be going through the door past the washrooms. You have to read the rules before it’ll open,” she hands him his card with a smile. “And enjoy yourself.”

Dean salutes her with the card. “Thanks, doll,” he replies and is rewarded with another snuffling laugh and wink before she turns back to grab a pie box.

The back hall looks like any other staff corridor in a restaurant. The two doors on the left are just bathrooms, separated by an “ _If you sprinkle when you tinkle_ ” sign that makes Dean snort. The door to the right has a porthole view into the kitchen, but Dean only catches a glimpse of motion, can’t see any actual people when he looks.

At the end of the hall, there’s a bright teal door with HOUSE RULES written in swirly gold letters at the top. The rule list seems simple enough as far as Dean, in his limited experience, can tell. _You will not intentionally injure our models. You will pick one hole and stay in it, even if you use your tongue. You will not use any means—magic or otherwise—to learn the real identity of our models. You will respect the privacy of any other guests…_

The list goes on, but seems to boil down to _don’t be a piece of shit or you’ll get your ass hexed from here to South Hell._ Dean takes no issue with that. Glancing around, he searches for a doorknob or a pen to sign a form, but when he doesn’t spot anything, he tries saying out loud, “I agree?”

There’s a shimmering light that passes over the door and the rule list disappears and a doorknob flickers into existence on the right. Dean can’t quite get the smile off his face when he pushes inside.

The room he enters isn’t overly large, but there are about a half-dozen…nooks? Dean doesn’t quite know what to call each little scene with the bottom half of a person sticking out, he loses the words to even try as he looks around.

The alcove nearest to him is built very much like the postcard that led him here in the first place. A fake kitchen counter frames a woman in a checkerboard dress flipped up to reveal a lovely pair of lacy panties. She’s standing up in polka dot peep toe shoes and sways her hips invitingly when Dean looks her up and down.

Off to his right, the view is quite different, appears to just be slick dark wood and a cushioned hole, no pun intended. This woman completely bare, her legs spread wide and held up in bondage cuffs, a series of eyeliner tally marks down her thigh. Someone—or seven someones, if the tally is correct—already made use of her today, left her dripping come down onto the floor in front of her. That admittedly sends a spark down Dean’s spine, but he keeps walking.

There’s a bride seated on a fancy limousine set up, her fluffy, white dress hiked up to reveal a matching white lingerie set, complete with a garter around her thigh and thin white panties around her hard arousal. Dean’s eyes linger there, half wondering if he’d pull her panties aside and find her already slicked beneath her balls. The lady next to her is kneeling on the ground in a garden set up, top half lost in a hydrangea bush, her broad shorts pulled down to show off how she’s _definitely_ already slick, the seat of her panties soaked through.

Inevitably, though, his gaze is (annoyingly predictably) snagged on a flash of plaid out of the corner of his eyes.

At the end of the row, there’s a woman leaned over into the hood of some carefully generic muscle car. The very bottom of her plaid blue shirt is the only part of her upper body visible out of the darkness of the car, but her jeans and panties are pulled down to keep her ass on display. Not removed entirely, just bunched up around her thighs, like she was trying to keep them off the dirty ground.

One of these witches _has_ to be a fucking psychic.

Dean steps forward and the woman shifts slightly like she feels him. He rubs a hand over her ass, the wispy hair there tickling under his palm as she pushes into the touch. Hooking his thumbs against the edge of her jeans to tug them a little further down so he can see her cunt, fuzzy and already wet enough to drip like she’d been waiting for him.

…Well, it’d take a worse man than Dean to leave her hanging.

*

Dean leaves _Vera Unique’s_ with a pep in his step, a double cherry pie, and Donna’s phone number. Not to mention the souvenir postcard that reads “ _Please cum again!_ ” in curly font above a photo of his own come dribbling out of a picture-perfect pussy.

All in all, it’s a dam good way to end the day.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…I wish this for you: a desert of your choosing!
> 
> Reminder if you’re in the US: Check your voter registration! Vote early, vote blue!


End file.
